(Our theatre has one auditorium, [Hall], with two levels: orchestra and balcony. When taking tickets, I routinely have these conversations with patrons:)
Me: “Okay, you’re upstairs in the balcony, nearest—”
Patron: “WE ARE NOT IN THE BALCONY! WE ARE IN [HALL]!”
Me: *politely* “Yes, the balcony section of [Hall].”
Patron: *snatches ticket back and storms up the stairs*
(Another example:)
Patron: *rushing up in a panic* “The sign says ‘orchestra’ above the door to the theatre! We don’t want to watch the orchestra; we want to see the play! We paid to see the play!”
Me: *politely* “Yes, you will be able to see the play. Your seats are simply on the first level of the auditorium.”
Patron: “Oh. But if the orchestra blocks our view, can we get a refund?”
Me: *picking my battles* “This play doesn’t have an orchestra. I’m sure you’ll be fine, but please let the staff know if there are any problems.”
(Another example: seeing, “ORCH,” short for “orchestra,” on their ticket, a patron asks, completely serious:)
Patron: “Does ‘orch’ mean there’s an orchard in there?”
(Every year my mom calls long-distance to wish me a happy birthday. About six years ago, no call. No call in the evening after work. No call the next morning. So, finally, I call her the evening after my birthday. I generally call my mom every other day.)
Mom: “Oh, hi, I was wondering when you’d call. Hadn’t heard from you in days.”
Me: “Well, I thought you would have called me yesterday.”
Mom: “Why?”
Me: “Well, it was my birthday.”
Mom: “No, it wasn’t.”
Me: “Uh, yeah. Has been for 47 years.”
Mom: “Oh, well… Happy birthday.”
(Every year she now calls at seven am saying, “I don’t want you to think I forgot your birthday. Again.”)
(My father is very much an “eat everything on your plate” parent. When I am preschool age, he often cooks up this pasta dish with ground beef, macaroni, and tomato sauce that I absolutely hate. Suppers with this dish often drag on for hours, because I just cannot eat this dish and would rather go hungry.)
Dad: “Oh, for crying out loud. Just f****** eat it already.”
Me: *tries to stuff forkful in my mouth at once, only to gag*
Dad: *cursing and swearing* “Stop acting up and eat it.”
Me: “I can’t!”
(My mom wordlessly gets up and leaves the dining room, returning a bit later with a plate of corn — something I like, but my father hates. She sets the plate down in front of my father.)
Dad: “What the f*** is this?”
Mom: “You need to finish the whole plate. If she has to eat something she hates, then so do you.”
Dad: *grumbles, snatches my plate away from me, and storms out of the room*
(From then on, I never had to eat the pasta dish. Instead, my mom would cook some of the ground beef on its own and would give it to me with some vegetables. Twenty years later, though, just the smell of pasta cooking makes me feel nauseated.)
(I am a customer here. I’m browsing through the aisles when another customer, an older lady, approaches me. Note, I am fairly tall while the lady is quite short.)
Lady: “Excuse me dear, I need a hand. You do work here, right?”
(After having read all the “I don’t work here” stories on this site I am a little worried that I’m in for some crazy)
Me: “Um, no… I don’t, actually…”
Lady: “Oh, I’m sorry! Well, would you mind doing me a favour anyway, then? I just need a hand getting one of these things off the top shelf. I can’t reach it.”
Me: *relieved* “Of course, no problem!”
(I got the item she wanted and she thanked me and left. Guess I was worried for nothing, but it’s nice to know that some people are still polite and sane!)
We get a lot of customers asking for the locations of items in our store. Most of the time it’s items that aren’t very common, or may be classified under something strange. But every so often we get something like this.
I was checking off an order when a customer comes up to me.
Customer: “Excuse me, do you have any honey mustard sauce?”
Me: “Of course, it’ll be right over here.”
I was a little confused because our honey mustard is one shelf above our regular mustard. But I lead him to the shelf and point it out.
Me: “Here we are.”
Customer: “No, not regular mustard, I mean do you have honey mustard, you know, the stuff you use with fried pepperoni?”
Me: “Yes, we have several kinds, here, here and here.” (I actually half pulled one of each brand we have off the shelf.)
Customer (a little embarrassed): “Oh, uh, thank you.”
Me: “No problem.”
Customer’s girlfriend (who was just joining us in the aisle): “Is it there?”
Customer: “…Yes.”
I get the feeling they thought I had lost my mind when I lead them down the aisle they had just come from.
